HAZEL'S POV
The sun woke me up. Not through expensive blackout curtains, but through a plain window with a thin shade. Light fell right across my face.
For one confused second, I didn't know where I was. The ceiling was wrong. The bed was wrong. Then I remembered.
I sat up. The small room came into focus. My duffel bag on the floor. The dresser with my few things. The sound of traffic from the alley.
I got up and looked out the window. The alley was gray and full of dumpsters, but the sky above it was bright blue. A pigeon sat on the fire escape.
A knock on my door made me jump.
"Hazel? You awake?" It was Asher's voice.
"Yes," I said, opening the door.
He stood there holding two mugs of coffee. He was already dressed. "Morning. Thought you might need this."
"Thank you," I said, taking one. The coffee was hot and strong. Not the fancy kind Alex ordered from Italy. Just regular coffee. It was better.
"You start at ten," Asher said. "But come out whenever you're ready. I'm just setting up."
He left, and I closed the door. I looked at the clock on the dresser. Eight-thirty. I had time.
I took a shower in the tiny bathroom. The water pressure was amazing, better than our fancy penthouse shower. I put on my jeans and a t-shirt. I looked in the small mirror. My face looked the same, but my eyes looked different. Awake.
At nine forty-five, I walked out into the gallery. Asher was behind the counter, arranging paintbrushes in jars.
"Ready for your first day?" he asked.
"I think so," I said. "What do I do?"
"Right now, just watch," he said. "See how I help customers. How I ring things up. It's easy."
The bell over the door jingled. A woman came in, carrying a canvas.
"Asher, you have to help me," she said. "The blue is all wrong."
"Morning, Clara," Asher said calmly. "Let's see."
Clara showed him her painting. It was a landscape, but the sky was a strange purple-blue. "I wanted it to look like twilight, but it looks like a bruise."
Asher studied it. "You're mixing too much red into your blue. Try less red, more white. And a touch of black, not gray."
He walked her to the paints, explaining as he went. He didn't just sell her a tube. He taught her. Clara left twenty minutes later, looking much happier.
"That's what we do here," Asher said to me after she left. "We help people make art. Not just sell them supplies."
The morning passed slowly. A few more customers came in. A college student buying sketchpads. An older man looking for framing. Asher helped each one, patient and kind. I watched, learning where everything was.
At noon, Asher said, "Lunch break. There's a deli around the corner. Their sandwiches are good."
"I don't have any money," I reminded him quietly.
"First week's advance," he said, pulling twenty dollars from the cash register. "Go eat. You need fuel."
I took the money, feeling strange. I hadn't earned it yet. But my stomach was growling.
The deli was small and busy. I ordered a turkey sandwich. While I waited, I looked at my reflection in the glass case. Hazel Sterling would never be in a place like this. Hazel Vale was.
Back at the gallery, Asher was eating his own sandwich at the counter. "How was it?" he asked.
"Good," I said. "Thank you for the advance."
"Don't mention it." He finished his sandwich. "Okay, your turn. A customer is coming in. You help them."
"Already?" I panicked.
"You watched me all morning. You know where things are. Just be honest. If you don't know something, say so."
The bell jingled. A young woman came in, looking unsure.
"Can I help you?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.
"I need... paint?" she said. "For my apartment walls. But not regular paint. Something... artistic?"
I thought about what Asher would do. "What kind of artistic? Are you painting a mural? Or just an accent wall?"
"Just one wall," she said. "My living room is so white. It's boring."
I showed her the acrylics. "These are good for walls. They dry fast and you can mix colors." I pointed to some sample cards. "What feeling do you want? Calm? Energetic?"
She thought. "Calm. But not boring."
"How about a soft green?" I suggested. "Like sage. It's peaceful but interesting."
Her face lit up. "Yes! That's perfect!"
I helped her pick out three tubes to mix the right shade, plus brushes and a drop cloth. When I rang her up, my hands shook a little, but I got it right.
"Thank you so much," she said as she left. "You were really helpful."
I turned to Asher. He was smiling.
"See?" he said. "You're a natural."
The afternoon was busier. I helped three more customers. Each time, I got more confident. I forgot about the penthouse. I forgot about Alex. I was just here, in this gallery, helping people find the right shade of blue.
At five o'clock, Asher flipped the sign to CLOSED. "Good first day," he said. "You did great."
"Thanks for giving me a chance," I said.
"Go paint," he said. "That's the real job."
I went back to the studio. My painting was waiting. I looked at it for a long time. Then I got out a new canvas. Smaller this time.
I painted the gallery. The light through the front window. The jars of brushes. The counter where Asher stood. It wasn't perfect. The perspective was off. But it felt good. My hand remembered how to move.
I was so focused I didn't hear Asher come in.
"That's nice," he said softly.
I jumped. "Oh. Thanks."
"You capture the light well," he said, coming closer. "Morning light is tricky. You got it."
We stood there looking at my painting. The quiet felt comfortable, not empty.
"What happened with your husband?" Asher asked gently. "If you want to talk about it."
I put down my brush. "He gave me a contract. For an open marriage. He said it was logical. Modern."
"And you signed it?"
"I did. Then I left."
Asher nodded slowly. "Are you going back?"
"No," I said. The word felt solid. Real.
"Good," he said. He didn't say anything else. He didn't tell me I was brave or strong. He just said "good."
That meant more than anything.
"I should make dinner," he said after a moment. "I was going to order pizza. Want some?"
"I don't have money for—"
"My treat," he said. "First day of work tradition."
We ate pizza in the back of the gallery, sitting on stools. It was greasy and delicious.
"So you own this place?" I asked between bites.
"Barely," he said, smiling. "My grandma left it to me. She was a painter. Not famous, but good. She taught me everything. When she died, I almost sold it. But I couldn't. So here I am."
"It's a good place," I said.
"It is now," he said, looking at me.
We finished eating. Asher cleaned up. "I'm upstairs if you need anything," he said. "Goodnight, Hazel."
"Goodnight, Asher."
I went to my little room. I was tired in a way I hadn't been in years. Not the tired of smiling at parties or making small talk. The tired of actually doing something.
My body ached. My hands smelled like paint and turpentine.
And for the second night in a row, in my narrow bed in my small room, I slept through the night.